


Glory

by Lady_Firefly



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-29
Updated: 2017-01-29
Packaged: 2018-09-20 13:24:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,951
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9493376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_Firefly/pseuds/Lady_Firefly
Summary: He was the Bastard Prince… the Dark Prince. He wasn’t celebrated in King’s Landing as other silver-haired Targaryens were. He was the warrior Prince, destined to protect the realms and fight the battles when and where needed. He was one rank above the Knights of the Kingsguard, but leagues beneath his brother Aegon. No Targaryen princesses were set aside for him, not even any high Lord’s daughter. He was the prince meant to be slaughtered on some battlefield one day. No one wanted that fate for their daughter.Naturally, Jon had always vied for the only thing that would make his destiny seem any better than what it was. Glory. Glory as a fighter, glory in the battlefield, glory in death.  It wasn’t until this fierce Northern princess started shooting fire at him through her eyes that he had really wanted for anything unrelated to his destiny, anything outside the battlefield.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The characters belong to the Greek Tragedy Odyssey. The premise and dialogues belong to the movie Troy.

When Sansa came to her senses she became aware of the acute pain in her arms. It felt like they were being ripped off of her body. And then she realized her arms literally _were_ being ripped off of her body as she was bound to a pole inside what looked like a makeshift tent. She was slumped on the freezing floor of a forest that she quickly guessed as the Wolfswood beyond Crofter’s Village. Her slumping position had put an unbearable strain on her arms which were bound behind her to the pole and Sansa felt so much pain, she feared her arms would never work again.

 

She was startled when sounds of loud voices came closer and closer still and then the tent flap was thrown back and in walked the most gruesome, grimy and bloody human being she had ever seen in her life. The man had chainmail on, just like she had seen her father and her eldest brother wear when they had last gone to battle against the Targaryens. But he had a lot more blood and dirt sticking to his clothes and even his face than Sansa had ever seen either her father or Robb in. Mother would have never allowed them to get that grimy and still enter the castle anyway.

 

At the thought of her home and family, a sudden anguished sob escaped her throat and that’s when it seemed the person marching inside the tent first noticed her.

 

He stopped short, even his grimy face conveying his absolute shock at the sight of her. He abruptly turned to whoever was coming in behind him and roared in fury, “What in the seven hells is this? _I said no one is to go beyond the edge of the Wolfswood!_ The troupe was _only_ to fight against the troupe brought forth by Prince Robb and _not_ to attack any of the settlements beyond!”

 

The man’s voice was surprisingly booming for he wasn’t a particularly large or towering man. Sansa could now see the man that had followed him in, a towering wildling redhead and a plump man in black chainmail, and they were both bowing to the grimy man with varying degrees of cowering in their postures.

 

“We thought she might amuse you, my Dark Prince.” The redhead tried to placate the irate man facing him and Sansa quickly knew whose tent this was when she heard the title being used.

 

Everyone in the seven realms knew of the Dark Prince. He was the only dark-haired offspring of King Rhaegar Targaryen. He was also known as the Bastard Prince as he was the result of a torrid affair between Rhaegar, when he was just a prince, and his northern mistress, who King Rhaegar still to this day favored over his Dornish wife and Queen. Prince Jon, the Dark Prince… the Bastard Prince… was also helmed as the best swordsman to grace the soils of the Seven Kingdoms after his own sword maester Ser Arthur Dayne, the Sword of the Morning.

 

And now the Dark Prince has come to the North, to Winterfell, brandishing his Valyrian sword in all his warrior glory because Sansa’s brother Robb had the audacity to fall in love with a Targaryen Princess on his travels in the Free Cities. He had not only fallen in love, but he had married and then smuggled Princess Daenerys Targaryen to Winterfell, knowing full well what consequences awaited them. Princess Daenerys was not only a Targaryen Princess, but she was also supposed to be married off to her own brother, Prince Viserys Targaryen, once she had returned from her travels in the east. Viserys didn’t take the slight lightly and demanded Robb’s head from his brother - the King.

 

King Rhaegar had taken Robb and Daenerys’s love as the excuse he had always wanted and had declared war against the Northerners who just always refused to kneel to him properly. And now the King’s troupes, the troupes from all of the Southern houses that knelt to the Targaryens, and also the Wildlings who were famously loyal to the Dark Prince had descended upon the North. From a fortnight past, they had been making their way through the Kingsroad to Winterfell. Sansa knew enough to know that her father and the other Lords had estimated it would take at least another month for the troupes to reach even as close as Wintertown, let alone Winterfell. That’s why her father had taken all of their troupes to The Twins, where they had hoped to cut the King’s troupes off and battle it out so that the heat didn’t reach to the North or Winterfell.

 

Ned Stark had left just enough men under Robb at Winterfell to man the castle. But the horror Sansa had witnessed from her hiding point behind a silly tapestry on the wall in the sept told her few bar her brother had survived the barbaric sudden attack of the Dark Prince’s troupe.

 

Sansa had accompanied Septa Mordane along with Jayne Poole to the big sept under construction on the edge of Crofter’s Village. She had meant to pray for the safe return of her father and his troupe from the battle. When the sudden battle cries had reached their ears, Septa Mordane had shoved her behind the tapestry, ordering her not to come out till she herself came to get Sansa.

 

Sansa had closed her eyes and heard noises of soldiers sacking the sept, breaking the walls it sounded like. She had heard the screams of women, of men, of Septas and Septons, of young girls. She had sobbed silently and begun to wonder whether Septa Mordane was even alive or not, when she had heard Robb’s voice... calling his own troupe to charge in. She had heard clangs of swords clashing. Then she had heard the booming voice that she now recognized as the Dark Prince’s telling his brother to go back to Winterfell, to make love to his new wife and prepare for the painful death that he was about to receive soon.

 

Sansa hadn’t been able to contain herself when she had sensed Robb retreating from the steps of the sept. She had called out his name and started to run towards him, towards the heavy closed doors of the sept, when strong arms had captured her from behind and she had been knocked unconscious with a blow to the back of her head.

 

As the reality of her predicament dawned on Sansa, she began to sob brokenly in earnest and the Dark Prince, whose eyes had been riveted on her face watching the play of emotions on her pale features and bright blue eyes, turned to his comrades grimly.

 

“What the seven hells, Tormund?” His voice demanded explanations… and quick.

 

“We thought she might amuse you, see her hair? Notice the color?” The man sounded hopeful that Jon would like the prize set before him once he took a careful note.

 

“If I may, my Prince?” The potbellied man moved closer to the Prince and said in a grave tone, “The Thenns had already sacked and… you know, what they did to all the prisoners… now I know they were essential to our plan of attacking from the Frozen Shore through the Bay of Ice. But once I saw this girl dangling from a Thenn’s arms, unconscious, I couldn’t _not_ save her. But I fear, they wouldn’t mind my commands for long if I keep her stashed in my tent. The only place she’d be safe from those Thenns is inside your tent, if she was thought to be a gift to the Prince. She’s obviously a Northerner and in any case, her family and home is bound to be destroyed as the battle moves up from The Twins to the Winterfell. You know, that is what Lord Baelish suggested to your father. So this girl, a common Northerner, is not safe in anywhere in the North right now, _except_ this tent. My prince..” The round man hesitated a little and then said in an urgent voice, “She kind of reminds me of my lady wife, my Prince, and I would like to be able to keep her safe.”

 

The Dark Prince sighed heavily and then dismissed the other two men with a flick of his hand. Sansa took a heaving breath and braced herself. She bit her lower lip to keep the sobs from escaping. She had never envisioned this was in her fate. The cruelty of the whole situation almost baffled her. She was a Northern Princess, the trueborn daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, and she was presented like animals to the Dark Targaryen Prince as ruins of battle.

 

Sansa heard him tug at his chainmail forcefully and then throw them off on the floor. As patches of clean, fair skin on a tight torso got revealed Sansa quickly averted her eyes and called the Dark Prince a Wildling brute in her mind. _Who undressed like that with disregards for a lady?_

 

“What's your name?” There was a world of command in the question and Sansa turned her head away in silent, but aggressive, defiance.

 

“Did you not hear me? _Answer me, girl!_ ” Sansa could hear the sound of sloshing water from the basin kept in the corner of the tent and knew he was washing up. She turned her whole body away as much as she could from where the Prince was.

 

“Do not command me, you savage brute! You sacked the sept! You killed the septas… the septons! Kill me too… but I will _never_ answer to you!” Sansa had hoped to sound fierce and commanding, but as she was crying at the thought of the killed people, she ended up sounding like a howling child.

 

She felt him coming over to where she was still tied to the poll and crouch down beside her. She was afraid of his intentions, so she looked over at him and then gasped and looked away as she saw he was bare chested and even the laces of his breeches were undone.

 

Sansa felt tugs at the ties on her wrist as the booming voice spoke dangerously close to her ear. “I’ve killed men in five of the seven realms, girl, never a Septa or a Septon though. My mother’s a Northerner. It’s how I indulge her.”

 

Sansa cringed from the soft note in his voice at the mention of his mother. _Did he think others didn’t have families? Didn’t it occur to him that his captive might have a mother?_ She spat with anger, “You’re _nothing_ but a killer!”

 

The Prince’s hand froze over her own and Sansa realized her hands were free of the ties. She brought her hands forward and slowly rubbed the bruised, numb flesh. Suddenly the Prince leaned even closer to her and grabbed and sniffed a lock of her her hair loudly. “You’re royalty, aren’t you? You’ve spent years talking down to men.”

 

It was a statement, not a question and Sansa tried to squirm away from him and make him relinquish his hold on her hair, but he held on. “You _must_ be royalty.” She heard the amusement in his voice at her silent dismissal of him. “What’s your name? Even fierce she-wolves of North have names!”

 

“Sansa.” Her name came out like a swear word on her lips. She waited for recognition to dawn on him and his resulting taunts.

 

“Are you afraid, Sansa?” His quick question sounded like a link in an interesting conversation they might have been having.

 

“Should I be?” Sansa finally looked up at him, allowing him to have a full inspection of her face.

 

And Jon looked his fill. _Was this perhaps how his father had felt when he had traveled this far up North and laid eyes upon his mother for the first time? Is it something about the air in the North, or something about Northern women and their bewitching blue eyes?_ Jon felt his grip tighten on the glistening red hair his fingers were tangled in. She even smelled heavenly. And he had never been this close to such heavenly bounty; he had never had such lavish gift squandered on him.

 

He was the Bastard Prince… the Dark Prince. He wasn’t celebrated in King’s Landing as other silver-haired Targaryens were. He was the warrior Prince, destined to protect the realms and fight the battles when and where needed. He was one rank above the Knights of the Kingsguard, but leagues beneath his brother Aegon. No Targaryen princesses were set aside for him, not even any high Lord’s daughter. He was the prince meant to be slaughtered on some battlefield one day. No one wanted that fate for their daughter.

 

Naturally, Jon had always vied for the only thing that would make his destiny seem any better than what it was. _Glory. Glory as a fighter, glory in the battlefield, glory in death._ It wasn’t until this fierce Northern princess started shooting fire at him through her eyes that he had really wanted for anything unrelated to his destiny, anything outside the battlefield.

 

Looking at the glittering blue eyes, he suddenly craved transient, ephemeral things instead of eternal glory that would make him immortal. He suddenly wanted to live… and live in a moment’s peace, not in a battlefield.

 

As if to remind Jon of what he had always been taught by every Targaryen around him, except his beloved little brother and aunt, the Northern princess narrowed her eyes and challenged him, “What do you want here in the North? You came to snatch away Prince Robb’s wife?”

 

Jon swallowed as he let go of her hair and got up to finish washing up. “I want what all men want. Eternal glory. I just want it more.” Then he shot the girl a fleeting glance before feigning a detached voice, “You don't need to fear me, girl. You're the _only Northerner_ to whom I’ll say that.”

 

 

***

 

Sansa tried to escape from the encampment that night when everyone went to sleep. She couldn’t get away more than four paces before a tall, bald and murderous looking Thenn grabbed her by the waist and dragged her away to what seemed like his own tent. She screamed and he punched her hard on the side of her stomach and she felt her breath constrict and she almost blacked out for a moment. She tried to claw his eyes out and got a resounding slap on her face and felt blood in her mouth. Sansa felt dead with acute pain, but she still kicked her feet and flailed her arms.

 

The next moment she was dropped like a heavy sack of potato and looking up from the ground, she saw the Dark Prince stab the Thenn where his neck met his shoulder repeatedly until he dropped with a loud thud beside Sansa.

 

Jon bent and picked Sansa up in his arms like a rag-doll and carried her back to his tent while his men came out of their tents after being roused from their sleep with the ruckus and watched. Once inside his tent, he hurriedly set Sansa down on his own pallet and inspected her lips for the source of the blood. His face grew ominous and he went to the basin before bringing a wet cloth back to her. Sansa sat trembling; the Thenn’s lifeless eyes imprinted on her memory as Jon cleaned her face and then with surprising force tore the side of her dress’s bodice where Sansa was clutching her ribs.

 

As he gingerly ghosted his fingers over the bruise on her ribs, he spoke slowly, “You were brave to fight him. You have courage.”

 

The patronizing words brought Sansa out of her trance. “To fight back when I'm attacked? _A dog has that kind of courage._ ” She directed all of her hurt and anger on the only living being in the room beside her.

 

Jon said nothing else, only watched her with soft eyes and pressed the cold, damp cloth to her bruised ribs. Sansa was shocked about it later, but she was so exhausted, that she actually fell asleep while the Dark Prince tended to her wounded ribs.

 

***

 

Sansa didn’t try to escape again. She knew the chances of someone coming to save her were slim. For one, no one knew she would be here. Everyone in that sept that day had been killed. Even if they guessed Sansa had been taken prisoner by the absence of her corpse, her father had taken most of the troupes to The Twin and Robb had already lost the few men he had when he had confronted Jon’s troupes the day they arrived. Robb couldn’t in any sane mind think to attack the encampment of this fairly big troupe on his own.

 

Sansa knew only the Dark Prince and his trusted advisor Maester Tarly knew who she really was. She had overheard Maester Tarly saying they had to hide it from the troupe, especially the Dark Prince’s younger brother, Prince Aegon, and the Thenns. If the Thenns or Prince Aegon knew who she was, they were bound to notify the troupes at The Twins about it and Sansa had heard the Dark Prince warn his advisor that he didn’t want Sansa to be treated like a hostage or a pawn in the strategies of battle.

 

Sansa didn’t know why as the weeks passed and they waited for the battling troupes to bring the battle up to where it was headed, to Winterfell and to Daenerys Targaryen, she started seeing the Dark Prince more as a fellow human being and less as her captor. Maybe it was due to how he treated her more like a random person sharing his tent rather than a prisoner or the heat she sometimes encountered in his eyes when he stared at her and his mood turned foul.

 

Sometimes Sansa felt they both shocked the other with their candor. Like the day she heard him giving a rousing speech to his troupe about seizing eternal glory in the battle of Winterfell and encountered him angrily as he entered the tent, “Why did you choose this life?” She saw Jon gauge her mood with just a perfunctory look and say in an indifferent tone, “What life?”

 

Sansa sneered. “To be a _great_ warrior!” Her tone clearly implied how great she found him. But Jon only looked at her with sad eyes. “I chose nothing. I was born and this is what I am. I am not meant to have the crown or a family. I am destined to lead my men into fights and one day die while doing it.”

 

Sansa took a quick little breath to hide how much that indifferent view to the end of one’s own life disturbed her. She harnessed her emotions to anger and directed it at him, “Such disregard for life! I pity you soldiers!” Suddenly Jon turned on her and then grabbing her by her arms, brought her into his body, “Oh my Ice Princess, Northern soldiers _died_ protecting _you!_ Perhaps they deserve more than you _pity?”_

 

Sansa was captivated by the sparkling gray of his eyes. It was so easy to see him as one of those princes from her songs. But he was determined to only live out his life in the battlefields. Sansa frustratedly yanked her arms out of his grasp and went to sit down on her own pallet just beside his. “The Gods have misspent the gift of life on you!”

 

Jon came over and lied down on his own pallet and took Sansa’s hand and held it over his heart. It had been closer to four weeks that Sansa had been with him, inside this small little tent, sharing meals and thoughts and abuses and in the last week, these harmless little touches. When his voice came next, it was almost sleepy, “I'll tell you a secret, sweet girl. Something they don't teach you in your septs. The Gods envy us. They envy us because we're mortal, because any moment might be our last. Everything is more beautiful _because_ we're doomed. You will never be lovelier than you are now, and we will never be here again.”

 

***

  
Jon woke to the feeling of a cold blade’s touch to his throat and a soft weight on his chest. He had known the blade’s cool touch on his throat many times before, but the other weight was unfamiliar. He didn’t move a muscle except open his eyes and looked up at the bright blue eyes of the creature of his dreams.

 

“Do it.” He ordered brusquely. Sansa’s hand on the dagger trembled. “Do it! Nothing’s easier.” He coaxed her this time. Sansa’s voice came out in a little whisper, “If I don’t, you’ll kill more Northerners.”

 

“Many.” Jon’s agreement made Sansa want to cry with frustration. “Why aren’t you afraid to die?!” He shrugged as his hand came up and clasped her hand on the dagger and flung the dagger across the room carelessly. “Everyone dies, whether today or fifty years from now.” His other hand came and settled on her knee as he waited for her to move away from him.

 

Sansa stayed put, looking down at his soft eyes. Jon ran his hand up her thigh slowly, taking her slip up with his hand, finally cupping her bare ass cheek when he reached it. “But have you thought of what a lucky death it would have been… to die underneath you?” With that, he abruptly switched their position.

 

Sansa’s hair spread over his pillow and her hands gripped his shoulders tightly. She looked at Jon’s eyes and willed her panic to subside. If a battle was coming that was going to leave them all as corpses in its wake, then before she died she wanted to have the promise she had seen in his eyes in the past weeks fulfilled. He was right, everything did seem more beautiful the moment Sansa accepted they were all doomed. And she wanted the Dark Prince to bring the doom over her himself.

 

Jon was infinitely gentle with her. His touches, his caresses were so at odds with their circumstances, so at odds with the calluses on his hands. He whispered such meaningless endearments against her skin that at one point Sansa burst out laughing. He seemed like he was drunk or mad or both and he worshiped her with full devotion.

 

Afterwards, they laid on his pallet, facing each other, Jon’s arms snugly encircling her and holding her to his chest. He leaned in for one more slow, thorough kiss and then said against her lips, _“Peace…_ that’s what you are.”

 

Sansa ran her fingers over his beating heart. “Am I still your captive?” Jon sighed as his face relaxed even more than before, “You’re my guest.”

 

“In the North, guests can leave whenever they want.” Sansa said in a light teasing voice. But when Jon spoke his voice was serious, assertive. “Then we should leave now.” Sansa had to take a beat to comprehend what he was saying, “Would you leave this war behind? Your glory behind?” He shrugged again and gathered her even closer to his chest, “Would you leave the North?”

 

Sansa took in a calming breath without answering him and pressed her head beneath his chin, surrendering herself to sleep. Before sleep claimed her though, she knew one thing for certain, she would be prepared to leave a lot of the things for a free life after the one she had lived in this tent, but the Dark Prince wasn’t someone she _ever_ wanted to leave.

* * *

 


End file.
